12
To his relief, Randall’s breakfast was left for him on a tray outside his room. A discreet knock was his only warning that the food had been deposited there; since he’d gotten up early and was already dressed and showered, he had no problem going to the door to see who was outside.
But whoever had delivered his meal — although he guessed it had been the silent Elaine, Greta Van Horn’s servant witch — they seemed to be long gone by the time he opened the door.
Which was fine. He really wasn’t in the mood for conversation right then anyway.
His breakfast included some of the best eggs benedict he’d ever had, along with cottage potatoes and a cup of sliced honeydew melon. Everything was as elegantly presented as though he’d ordered it from a five-star restaurant, and he found himself w
